


My Heart Your Home, Your Shape My World

by ineffablefool



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (a main focus! this story does not exist without Aziraphale being round and lovely!), Asexual Relationship, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, No Sex, No Smut, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Peak Soft Fat Positivity, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, because Crowley again, like i cannot overemphasize the amount of romance going on here, lil bit of ableist language, rated T for some eff bombs because Crowley has a potty mouth sometimes, welcome to my fic please let me lovingly describe Aziraphale's body for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 04:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool
Summary: Aziraphale held his wine glass up to the moon, watching the dark liquid slosh gently.  Neither of them had had enough to be drunk.  Still, there was a feeling in his chest, a warmth and looseness, which he supposed was really only intoxication of a different sort.“Top-off?”  Crowley murmured the offer into Aziraphale’s chest.  Their current seating arrangement was small enough that one plump angel and one gangle-limbed demon could really only use it by sitting very close.  This was a conundrum neither party seemed to mind, easily enough solved by the demon curling himself around the angel, face resting against the angel’s shoulder, arm thrown loosely around the angel’s belly.(Crowley and Aziraphale love each other very much, and also Aziraphale's round body is lovely.  That's the plot.)





	My Heart Your Home, Your Shape My World

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is: the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written. I am ace, and I am fat, and I am romantically attracted to fat people, and I basically just smashed all my feelings into 5000 words of Soft Zone(TM). There is no angst and only a few happy tears. It's just seeing and appreciating and fully loving the corporation of the person you want to spend your existence with, in stereo, because I switch viewpoints just a little bit. (I'm sorry that Crowley gets a little bit slighted when I'm the one at the keyboard. It is not because Aziraphale loves him any less.)
> 
> This story features more physical intimacy and less clothing than anything else I have written, but I promise it is still 100% asexual. There are two extremely brief, extremely oblique mentions of, y’know, anatomical bits, *as* anatomical bits and not in context of any activities. The rest is all cuddlin’, non-sexual touchin', and smoochin’. i got u, sex-repulsed ace fam.
> 
> I'm writing for the TV characterization, but I've decided that my written Aziraphale's body is shaped like how Tumblr user speremint draws him (([1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut also draws a gorgeous Aziraphale with a lovely round face](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how))), because I much prefer to imagine that as I work. Please also imagine that as you read! Especially for this story. It really doesn't work to put the TV appearance of Aziraphale into this story.

Crowley had been right. The lake was perfect.

The sun was down now, the last orange-purple glow long since faded from the west. Above and below were a riot of stars reflected woozily in the slow-rippling water. The pines and spruce and cedars on the far shore were flat cutouts of themselves, black against the near-black sky.

Their rented house was the only occupied property anywhere along the shore for the week, even though late August should have been a busy season in this part of the world. It was plainly some kind of demonic miracle.

Aziraphale held his wine glass up to the moon, watching the dark liquid slosh gently. Neither of them had had enough to be drunk. Still, there was a feeling in his chest, a warmth and looseness, which he supposed was really only intoxication of a different sort.

“Top-off?” Crowley murmured the offer into Aziraphale’s chest. The dock jutting over the water had held two weathered deck chairs when the evening had started, but at some point an incongruously soft-cushioned loveseat had taken their place. It was small enough that one plump angel and one gangle-limbed demon could really only use it by sitting very close. This was a conundrum neither party seemed to mind, easily enough solved by the demon curling himself around the angel, face resting against the angel’s shoulder, arm thrown loosely around the angel’s belly.

“No thank you.” Aziraphale set his glass down on the small table which had begun, and would probably also end, the evening on the dock. “I was only thinking what a lovely night it is.”

“Mmm.”

Aziraphale brushed his lips against the red crown of hair. “With lovely company.”

“Mmm,” Crowley said again, but this time the sound was longer, and was accompanied by a sort of all-over flop which left him with his various limbs in a different random arrangement, and his head in Aziraphale’s lap. His golden eyes flickered lazily over the angel’s face. “Yup. Absolute vision of loveliness, right here in front of me.”

“Flirt,” Aziraphale replied, trying to hide a smile.

“Honest one, though.”

Aziraphale stopped bothering to fight the smile. Looked up again, across the quiet water, hoping the faint blush he felt on his cheeks wouldn’t be visible in the dim.

A hand came up to stroke the soft underside of his jaw. “Pretty angel.”

Oh dear. Probably no hope of hiding his blush now.

“Gorgeous angel,” Crowley went on, and now there was definitely an element of teasing in his voice, the absolute wretch. “Dazzling angel. _Exquisite_ angel. Did you bring a thesaurus from the shop, by any chance? I’m running out of vocabulary here.”

“Oh, do _stop_.” But he wiggled, just a little bit. And Crowley felt it, of course, _obviously_ he would, still lying there in Aziraphale’s lap; and when the demon’s mouth stretched in an impish grin, golden eyes crinkling with glee, Aziraphale smacked him lightly on the arm. “You are simply terrible. I’m sure I don’t know why I put up with this.”

“‘S because you can’t get enough of me, I think.”

“Well, it’s definitely not _that_.”

“Ah! A lie!” Crowley slithered to his feet, grabbing the wine bottle from the table as if wanting something to gesture with while he paced. “A very, _very_ obvious lie! And if I’ve got you _lying_ to me, then I wonder what else I can tempt you into?”

Aziraphale tsked. “My dearest, I think we know by now that your demonic wiles don’t work on me.”

“Oh, Aziraphale.” There was something different in Crowley’s voice, something gentle, and his grin had fallen into a crooked smile. “I’ve never needed to use demonic wiles on you. Regular old wiles work just fine.”

It seemed to Aziraphale that he would usually offer a protest to that sort of statement — something indignant, something that would draw another comeback out of Crowley. They would banter for a little longer, and then Aziraphale would kiss him. Or if he could resist the urge long enough, then Crowley would kiss Aziraphale. The key components were the same either way, the banter and then the kissing.

Instead, he only looked at Crowley. The demon could fuss all he wanted about Aziraphale; it was obvious, though, that _he_ was the truly beautiful one. Moonlight picked out the edges of him, sharp and sinuous and lovely. It pooled in the golden eyes, slit-pupiled and shining as they met his own. It whispered over the demon’s lips as they parted, over the bobbing in his throat as he moved to speak —

“Oh, _there’s_ a temptation I hadn’t tried yet! You’ll love this one.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Beg pardon?”

Crowley swaggered over to the table to drop the bottle back off, then raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Ever skinny-dipped, angel?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale could tell that his scandalized reaction was exactly what the demon had been looking for by the way the smirk got even wider. “I most certainly have not! I mean — a proper Roman bath, of course, that was a different matter entirely, simply the style at the time, and — and you were _there_, so of course you know perfectly _well_, you _saw —_”

_Saw me quite perfectly naked in a setting that seems rather too intimate when I think about it now_, he somehow managed not to blurt out amongst the rest of it.

“Never mind. No! I have not!”

“What better time to give it a try, then?” Crowley waved a hand around. “Nice night for it, quiet, secluded...” He slunk closer, leaning over Aziraphale until they were nearly touching. “Nobody here, angel. Except us.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “You’re awful.”

“Yyyep,” Crowley grinned.

He stood up, pulled off his shirt in a smooth rippling motion, and posed for a moment. “The feel of the night air on your skin,” he declared. “The sense of —”

Aziraphale stifled a laugh as Crowley struggled with his absurdly tight trousers.

“Hang on. Um. Actually, just —” He snapped his fingers, replacing the trousers with a pair of black trunks which, while not nothing, weren’t far from it. “There! The sense of _danger_. Of the _forbidden_.”

“You just tried to tell me there _was_ no danger.”

“I’m setting the mood! This is an artisanal temptation!” Crowley pressed on, striking another pose, half-lidded eyes boring into Aziraphale’s own. “Nothing but dark water between your body... and mine.”

Aziraphale smiled. “You can barely even swim, dear.”

“I can doggy-paddle,” Crowley shrugged. “That’s close enough.”

“Well, it was a very nice temptation, I’m sure,” Aziraphale replied. “But you are simply not getting me to _strip_, out in _public_ like this. Honestly, Crowley, what would people say?”

“I think first they’d say ‘dear you-know-who —’” he pointed upward — “‘what a beauty!’ And then they wouldn’t say much of anything. Sort of more distracted with the fact that their hair would be on fire.”

“Would it,” Aziraphale said faintly.

Crowley’s eyes flashed, although when he spoke, his voice was casual enough. “Oh, I’m not sharing you. Anyone else wants an angel, they can go find their own.”

“...oh.”

Crowley only looked at him for a moment, his eyes now very soft.

“Anyway. Seeing as I’ve got no trousers anymore, I’m going to go splash around a bit.” He strolled to the edge of the dock. “Temptation train leaving the station!”

He jumped off with a whoop, and the watery reflections broke and scattered. Aziraphale curled a hand gently against his own mouth and listened to him paddle away.

* * *

The problem with Aziraphale, Crowley very firmly believed, was that he was _too much_.

There was a space in the world marked “Aziraphale”, and in it was supposed to’ve fit all the angel’s ridiculousness and all his stupid clothing choices and all his bloody goodness and his love for things, for books and tea and food. For all of his perfect bloody adorableness. It was all supposed to have fit, just so.

But he spilled over, every bit of him, too ridiculous and too good and too, too beautiful. There was too much of him, and so there he was, just all over the place, and what the heaven was Crowley supposed to do in the face of all that?

Crowley flailed his way through the water, trying to show that he _could_ swim, sort of. Enough. Not like it was his fault he was all long pokey limbs that didn’t want to go the same direction. Not his fault he wasn’t shaped like one of those sea mammal things that were lightning-sleek when they hit the water. Penguins, now. Round slow waddling things on land, but dynamite in the water. Crowley had an appreciation for penguins. Even if the formalwear was a bit much for the Antarctic. Not appropriate oceanside attire at all.

Aziraphale’s idea of _lakefront_ attire today, that was just a perfect example of the whole problem. Crowley had been ready first, since all he’d done was to take off jacket and vest and tie, leaving his shoes by the door. He’d collapsed amiably on the back porch of their rented lake house, leaning his chin on his hand. Waited half-napping until Aziraphale called his name at last.

A soft, warm presence had drifted up beside him, glowing in the darkness behind his eyelids with the same unseen radiance he’d tracked across continents and centuries. Up until a couple of years ago, when the need to track from a distance had become finally, gloriously obsolete.

Crowley had opened his eyes, and the first thing he’d seen had been sandals with socks. _Tartan_ socks. Just standing there beside him, like they had any business existing in one place. Above that were the angel’s plump calves, leading up into a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts that were four inches too long to be stylish, and tailored like Edwardian trousers besides.

Crowley could feel, absolutely _feel_ the fashion rant coming on, it was inevitable, and so he’d kept raising his eyes up, ready to give the angel a witheringly sardonic look and _really_ let him know what-for...

And oh, God. Or Satan. Or anybody. Too much, _again_, and every smart comment rising in Crowley’s throat was consumed by the huge warm something that had blossomed in his chest.

Aziraphale had not traded in his antique, stodgy, over-layered long-sleeve shirt and waistcoat and jacket for some other antique, stodgy, over-layered mess, although that had been Crowley’s expectation. Aziraphale had, in fact, opted for short sleeves. And a single layer. And no bow tie.

The angel had stood before him, there on the porch, in one of those reverse-print Hawaiian shirts, all pale blues and creamy off-whites. Coconut buttons done up all the way to his collarbones, at which point there _weren’t_ any more buttons, just an open collar and a pale smooth throat. The shirt hung just the right amount of loose over the angel’s chest, then skimmed dizzyingly over the rounded expanse of his belly. Dropped untucked to just midway of his broad hips. It would have been tacky tourist garbage at any time in the last hundred years, and it was even more ludicrous in the twenty-first bloody century, and it fit Aziraphale so well that for a moment Crowley had been _jealous_. Of Aziraphale or the shirt, he couldn’t tell.

His too-much angel had raised his chin and given Crowley an arch little glare. “Don’t you start,” he had said. “_You_ may still be gallivanting around in the same thing you always wear, but _I_ am... oh, ‘loosening up’.” A satisfied smile. “This is a _vacation_.”

“Guh,” Crowley replied.

“And I,” Aziraphale had continued, “intend to enjoy myself.” He’d started down the mulched path to the lake, the private dock floating over it, still with two chairs on it for now.

Stupid bloody perfect beautiful angel. By the time Crowley had regained his wits he’d had to run to catch up with Aziraphale, grab him around his perfect round waist, and spin him so he could kiss him silly.

They had ended up in the chairs on the dock, talking and drinking; then on the incongruous loveseat instead, whenever one of them had gotten around to miracling it. Just a little too small, so that they’d had to sit close, Crowley wrapping himself around the angel as well as he possibly could without switching the limbs for coils. Probably Crowley had miracled it, then. Aziraphale would’ve left room for propriety, even if he wouldn’t necessarily have made use of it once it was there.

Crowley gave a particularly enthusiastic smack of his hand against the water, grinning as a shower of droplets spattered down. Fuck. _Fuck_, Aziraphale loved him. He’d had two years to get used to it, and it was a thrill every time he realized he still hadn’t. The most amazing, clever, gorgeous, wonderful entity to ever be shaped by God’s fickle hands was not fifty meters away right now, waiting patiently for him to quit mucking around like a dying otter and then come back so maybe they could kiss some more. He wanted to shout it at the stars, this too-big feeling. Shout at them that Aziraphale was his, _his_, that everything else could go to actual Hell for all he cared, because Aziraphale loved him, _Crowley_, very possibly perhaps a _tenth_ as much as Crowley loved Aziraphale.

He would’ve liked some company in the water, sure. Not naked — he had no illusions about how likely _that_ would go over with Aziraphale, whose idea of relaxed dress was to take off his going-out jacket and put on his just-around-the-shop jacket — 

_Except when he apparently just decides it’s time to make your fucking heart implode, so he puts on the most alluring Hawaiian shirt in history..._

—anyway. Even Crowley wasn’t out here with his lack of bits going free, so he wouldn’t have expected it of his properly-prim angel. Still, they’d both been around for the nineteenth century. Aziraphale could have miracled himself up one of those goofy all-over suits with the long sleeves if he’d wanted.

And Aziraphale was a penguin in the water, or a seal. One of those Antarctic mammals. Round and plump and dynamite. He could swim circles around Crowley, and Crowley would happily splash water at him until asked (with a distinctly un-angelic roll of the eyes, probably) to stop.

Funny how Aziraphale had mentioned the baths. The two of them in Rome thousands of years ago, and yeah, they had met at one of the then-modern public bathhouses on several occasions. Probably making an Effort, the both of them, just for appearances amongst the humans, although he couldn’t remember. He remembered Aziraphale’s smile, though, and the halo of his soggy curls. His wide arms and chest and belly all bare for anyone to see, but he hadn’t been Crowley’s, then, so there’d been nothing Crowley could do. Just try to pretend he wasn’t so deep in love that to ever leave it would kill him, the shock of the pressure change, his strange bottom-dwelling heart bursting even before it reached the surface. Just ignore, somehow, the fact that everyone else in the place could see Aziraphale’s beauty just as well as he could, even though he, Crowley, was the only one who could never admit it. Not back then. Not for thousands of years. After they’d finally come together on their own side, and discovered just what, exactly, that actually meant.

Crowley decided that he had had enough of swimming, and that he would like some more Aziraphale instead. He started back toward the dock and the beloved figure who waited there for him.

* * *

Aziraphale managed to hold out until he was quite sure Crowley was far enough away, and then he very delicately wiped at the wetness that had collected in his eyes. Foolish, of course, but a foolishness he could live with.

He’d really had no right, after everything, for Crowley to still love him at all. The fact that he still did — very obviously did, now that it could be admitted, and so very much — was something Aziraphale deeply hoped to never take for granted. And while Crowley might have had rather a head start, Aziraphale had caught up at last. If the demon felt even a fraction of the love which Aziraphale did, he would be very surprised — but oh, so very grateful. Never let it be said that he was not grateful.

He followed the demon’s progress through the water for a while, half-inclined to miracle him a pair of water wings. Or one of those inner tubes with the cartoon duck heads. He imagined Crowley’s reaction to that, the sudden yell at the indignity, and he laughed aloud.

_Of course, he’d probably swim back over here to tell you off about it, and after he was done hopping about you could just hold out your arms. And he would come to you. Coil around you like the serpent he is, the lovely thing._

Aziraphale smoothed a wrinkle from the front of his shirt, not flinching from the soft hill of belly he could feel beneath.

His corporation was a familiar vessel. Comfortable, after six millennia of living in it. Its shape was one which had gone in and out of favor, over the years and from one place to another, but which he had never seen much point in changing. It reflected him, after all — his truest essence, not the angelic spirit in him but him, _Aziraphale_, collector of books and prophecies and memories of a hundred thousand splendid meals. Crowley changed, over time and as he saw fit. Aziraphale did not.

It had been a little while now since this corporation had fallen back out of common Earthly favor, with all the minor annoyances that presented, the myriad ways humans had engineered the world to no longer quite fit him unless he miracled a bit more space into it for himself. And, of course, certain elements of the angelic host had never had much respect for it, any more than they’d had for him. It was all one with them, likely. The corporation a clear manifestation of the being within; the being within weak, _soft_, unbefitting their heavenly number.

Well. Bugger the whole lot of them anyway.

Crowley’s marvelous eyes lingered on him all the time now, not just from behind dark glasses when he thought Aziraphale wasn’t looking. Crowley’s hands found every excuse to touch him, from holding his hand to brushing his cheek to drifting over his leg, fingers curling loosely around his ankle, on nights when Aziraphale sat reading in his chair and Crowley lounged with a glass of something on the floor beside him. And sooner or later, Crowley’s hands would always stray to the most noticeable feature of Aziraphale’s form.

Aziraphale had managed perfectly well on his own all those centuries, content enough with this expansive body, this grounding weight. Being able to see, now, how Crowley looked at him — as though he was flawless, as though every inch of him was something beyond divine — that was admittedly a different matter. That was something even better than contentment.

Out on the lake, Crowley was still splashing, but a little less enthusiastically than before. He would probably come back in soon. His lithe, bare body would not so much cut through the water as stumble, fine-muscled limbs all thrashing out of sync until he was back on dry land, and then he would be a moon-carved sculpture again, every angle of bone and sinew on display. Crowley’s current appearance was very much in Earthly favor. Aziraphale had loved every version of Crowley’s form he’d ever been privileged to see, though — even in retrospect, once he’d finally realized he _was_ in love, he had adored the memories of them. None of them had ever been quite so robust as Aziraphale’s, but all of them had been Crowley.

He folded his hands against the curve of his stomach.

_Whatever of yourself you wish to show me, dear, I love, and always will._

_Whatever of myself I show to you..._

It was terribly improper, of course. He was still technically in public even if there was no one else here. And even though Crowley had already seen him, seen _all_ of him, thousands of years ago already, this really was still different. It was the context. They hadn’t met up in a public bath to discuss business amongst a crowd of other anonymous man-shaped creatures. They had come here to be alone. To be in love. To celebrate the impossibility of their love, and also the certainty. 

Perhaps he was still running a bit slow after all. Two years now since they’d entered the Ritz as friends and left as something else at last, hand-in-hand for the first delirious time. What was he still hiding? Was he only afraid that something else would change?

_I won’t change_, the Crowley who sometimes spoke up from his head said now. _You’re stuck with me_.

What a wonderful problem to have.

The actual Crowley was coming in, now, his awkward splashing growing louder as he closed the distance.

Aziraphale’s fingers skimmed up his shirt to rest on the button at his throat.

* * *

“Ahh, see, now that was _fun_.” Crowley shook out his hair, then stretched. “Lots of fun. _Loads_ of fun, and you had to go and miss it. I’m trying to inspire envy, angel, you’ll have to tell me if it’s working —”

Wh.

He didn’t know why it had taken so long to process what he was seeing. Because it wasn’t like he _wasn’t_ looking at Aziraphale, of _course_ he had been looking at Aziraphale, why the bloody heaven would he ever want to look at anything else. It was pretty much his life goal at this point to just drink the angel in forever, and now all of a sudden his cup was runnething over with no warning at all, and he felt something in his brain reboot.

Aziraphale still sat on the miracled loveseat, posture impossibly straight, hands clasped loosely in his lap. Same as he’d sat on chairs and benches and tacky tartan sofas all over the world. His eyes were colorless in this light, but they still pinned Crowley’s in the way that nobody else could manage, like Aziraphale was the snake, and Crowley the tiny helpless mammal. There was something uncertain in those eyes, and in the smile that ghosted about the angel’s mouth.

The world’s most alluring Hawaiian shirt was, at present, folded neatly over the back of the seat. Aziraphale was naked from the waist up, and in the half-darkness his body shone more sublimely than any of the stars Crowley had once helped build.

“Ngh,” Crowley remarked.

He gave talking up as a lost cause, for now, and just looked at the angel. Looked at the angel’s soft arms, lightly freckled about the shoulders, as though with the memory of sun that hadn’t touched the skin since those skirt things had been the rage back in Sumeria. Looked at the angel’s rounded chest, visibly rising and falling, just a little, with each breath.

Crowley looked at the angel’s middle. Softest of all, roundest of all, bare and broad and curving in the gentle moonlight.

There was too much of Aziraphale. Or, put a different way, there was _just the right amount_ of Aziraphale. Because no matter what he looked like he would still be too ridiculous and too good and too beautiful, too much for Crowley to hold onto with his grasping greedy needing hands, but Crowley was going to keep trying to hold all of him anyway, to pull all of the angel into his heart, where he belonged.

Aziraphale held out his arms. Crowley went to him.

The loveseat seemed as though it had grown a few inches during his swim, like Aziraphale had wanted to give him the option to keep his distance if he wanted. As if Crowley had ever wanted anything less in his very long life. He sat sideways beside Aziraphale, legs folded up under himself, one hand resting lightly against the back of the angel’s neck. His other hand reached out, then hesitated.

“Can I...?”

Aziraphale’s voice was low. “Yes.”

Crowley curved his hand around the angel’s cheek, and he leaned forward to kiss him, just a brief press of lips. Aziraphale sighed against him, and Crowley felt his heart twist so painfully that he had to stop for a moment, their foreheads touching, willing his ragged breath to quiet.

“Angel...”

He trailed off, letting his hand slip down Aziraphale’s throat. His fingers traced over the angel’s far shoulder, feeling the soft skin, the softer layer of flesh giving ever so slightly beneath it. He had to lean closer, a little, to do so. Drew imaginary constellations amongst the ghostly freckles, his other hand drifting up to wind itself in Aziraphale’s hair.

Crowley thought he felt one of Aziraphale’s arms curl around him, but that part of the world seemed very distant.

The lean hand spelling out stars on Aziraphale’s shoulder moved to his chest, palm and fingers gently slipping over skin. More give here, more flesh beneath Crowley’s reverent fingertips. A light dusting of snowy hair. Crowley pressed his palm more firmly over the heart, feeling its tender thudding against his hand. It was a little faster than a human heart might usually beat. About as fast as Crowley’s own.

Crowley could tell, by the way his vision had shifted, that his eyes had gone full yellow. That was all right. He only had so much concentration to go around, and right now there was something _much_ more worth his attention. Who needed scleras anyway.

He breathed deeply, once, twice. His palm slid down from Aziraphale’s chest, tilting over the curve of his stomach. Rested there like it belonged.

The angel made a tiny choked sound, and his arm around Crowley tightened. But he didn’t pull away.

“Pretty angel,” Crowley murmured. He spread his fingers slightly, letting them soak in the warmth radiating from Aziraphale’s skin. “Beautiful angel. I still need that thesaurus.” His hand smoothed over the wide expanse of softness, faint dimples trailing the pressure of his fingertips as they sank in ever so slightly, like stars again. Shooting stars. “Perfect angel.”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale half-whispered, and Crowley tore his eyes away from the motion of his hand, looking instead into eyes which now trembled with tears. “You mustn’t say such things, I don’t think. It’s a bit...” Crowley stroked his thumb in a circle against Aziraphale’s belly, and the angel uttered a quiet sigh before continuing. “...blasphemous.”

“‘M okay with blasphemy. Love a good blaspheme.” He slid his hand around Aziraphale’s side, letting his fingers dance over every bit of flesh along the way. “Like, I could say you’re the most beautiful thing in all of Creation, would that be blasphemous?”

“N-no.” Aziraphale blushed, and Crowley could see it spreading not just over the round face but also down the soft chest, which was something he had never imagined before and was now utterly delighted by.

Crowley wound himself more tightly around the angel, hands pressing against his back. “Or I could say that you’re the most _important_ thing in all of Creation. Yeah? And I’d burn everything if I had to, to keep you. Keep you safe.” He bumped his nose against Aziraphale’s. “What about that?”

“Maybe a little blasphemous,” Aziraphale replied. His hands were meeting behind Crowley’s neck, now, pulling him in even closer.

“And if I say you’re the most perfect thing in all of Creation?”

The angel’s voice was almost inaudible. “Then you _would_ be a blasphemer, I think.”

“Okay,” Crowley murmured against yielding lips. “Honest one, though.”

It was Aziraphale who pressed forward, his lips catching Crowley’s, seeking and yearning and yet still incredibly gentle. Crowley thought he responded very well, considering what the sensation was doing to him. What the electric thrill of Aziraphale’s chest and belly, right there against his own skin and bones, was doing to him. His brain was rebooting fast enough that it was liable to blow the power supply, leave him with all his lights gone dark.

Which, okay, good. Fine. What a way to go.

By the time the kiss was finished, their incongruous seating had not only gone back to its original size, but had in fact shrunk such that there was no longer room for two people at all. There was just enough room for one gloriously round angel, and one demon blissfully curled up in the angel’s lap. Crowley was relatively sure he hadn’t done that. Maybe, though. Not like he’d had much presence of mind for the last... however long.

He did kind of wonder where the moon had gone. And... that wasn’t a faint glow of light in the east, was it?

Crowley planted a firm kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. “Y’know, your shirt’s fallen on the ground.”

“Oh dear. Whatever shall I do? I can hardly wear it now.”

The frankly devious little smile on the angel’s face earned him another kiss on the cheek, although this one strayed dangerously close to his mouth. “You’re a tease, Aziraphale. That’s supposed to be my job.”

“You’ve also still got no trousers, for the record. It doesn’t seem like we can go anywhere now without being arrested for indecent exposure.”

“Eh, no matter.” Crowley wriggled around until he was satisfied, draped over Aziraphale, one hand curved around the side of his stomach, head pillowed on his chest. “Nothing to do about it but watch the sun come up, I guess.”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale chided, although Crowley could hear a smile in there. “What about breakfast?”

“I’ll take care of it, pretty angel.” Crowley kissed the warm skin over his angel’s heart. “That’s my job, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I did _warn_ you that it was the Soft Zone(TM).
> 
> Fun fact: the day I finished writing this, I was driving home from work trying to think of a title. My brain offered “The Most Alluring Hawaiian Shirt In The World”, which I... did not decide to use, but which did make me laugh fairly loudly.
> 
> **Thank you for reading!** If you were thinking of leaving a comment, please know that I treasure every single one, whether it's a single emoticon, a copy-pasted line, a keysmash, an entire novel of feelings, or whatever. (Especially on this story, because it is my baby.) I've literally cried a few times reading some of the lovely things people have said in comments, and they really are fuel for my soft little heart -- but never, ever required, so please don't feel pressured. Just know that if you're ever questioning whether it would bother or annoy me for you to comment or otherwise reach out, _no oh goodness no it will never bother me it will absolutely do the opposite of that_.
> 
> If you want to say hi on Tumblr, I'm [ineffablefool](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com) there, too. The last sentence of the previous paragraph applies here as well. 
> 
> I would never actively request art from anyone I wasn't paying, but if you, the human reading this, were to decide it was worth your time to create fanart based on any of my stories, I would be incredibly honored ([and would love to enshrine it forever on my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ineffablefool-gets-fanart-from-lovely-people))! I have only one requirement: please don't draw Aziraphale any thinner than the size I headcanon (I need both my soft cuddly daydreams, and my positive fat representation). Here are some examples of what that sort of minimum body size/shape might look like: ([speremint 1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([speremint 2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how)) Otherwise, the characters can look however you like!
> 
> (If you say something nice about one of my stories and I recognize you as an artist who does commissions, there is a chance I will ask to give you an amount of money of your choosing to draw your favorite bit of the story you complimented. Just a little warning.) 
> 
> I hope you're having a fantastic day.


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